LITMIR.BIZ

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lip and nodded. She looked down at her lap and twisted a fold of dirty fabric between her fingers.

      ‘How old are you, Aggie?’

      ‘I dunno, miss.’

      Somewhere between ten and twelve, Arabella guessed. Dirty and half-starved, but with eyes that were bright with intelligence. ‘Have Harry and Tess told you what’s going to happen to you now?’

      The girl’s head lifted. Her thin face split into a grin. ‘I’m gonna go t’ school!’

      Arabella laughed. ‘You want to go to school?’

      The girl nodded.

      ‘Did Harry tell you about the school, Aggie?’

      ‘Missus did.’ The girl’s gaze flicked to Harry’s wife, Tess. ‘She says it’s in the country.’

      ‘A place called Swanley,’ Arabella said, smiling. ‘Not far from London.’

      ‘She says it’s for girls like me.’

      ‘It is.’ Girls like Polly and Tess had been, girls like Aggie was now: with lives of poverty and prostitution ahead of them.

      ‘I’ll learn ‘ow to read an’ write, and t’ speak proper,’ Aggie said. ‘And I’ll ‘ave me own bed!’

      ‘Yes, you will.’ Aggie would have her own bed, new clothes, and three good meals a day. She’d have encouragement and kindness—and most importantly, she’d have a future.

      Arabella glanced at Harry, standing with an arm around Tess. ‘We must be going.’ She stood and held out her hand to Aggie. After a moment’s hesitation the girl placed her own hand it in.

      ‘I’m glad to have met you, Aggie. I hope you’ll be very happy at school.’

      Aggie nodded shyly.

      Arabella released the girl’s hand and turned to embrace Tess. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

      Tess blushed and shook her head.

      Harry accompanied them into the dark hallway. He hugged his sister again and opened the front door.

      Arabella paused on the doorstep. ‘You said you’d seen another girl?’

      Harry nodded. ‘In Thrawl Street.’ His gaze flicked briefly to his sister. ‘She’s older ‘n Aggie. Been on the game a few months.’

      Polly’s mouth tightened. She looked away.

      ‘I’ll talk to ‘er tomorrow,’ Harry said. ‘See if she wants t’ leave Whitechapel.’

      Arabella nodded. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘No,’ Harry said, his eyes on his sister. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced back at Arabella. ‘Want me t’ walk with you?’

      She shook her head. ‘We’ll be fine.’ She knew these streets as well as she knew the streets of Belgravia and Mayfair.

      Harry nodded farewell and closed the door.

      Arabella pulled the shawl forwards over her face. She linked her arm with Polly. ‘Back to Rosemary Lane.’ And then Kensington Gardens. And then the Fothergills’ ball.

      The incongruity of it made her dizzy for a moment: she stood in Whitechapel, in a street that was little more than an open sewer, and yet in a few hours’ time she’d be in a ballroom, wearing a dress of midnight-blue satin and with pearls in her hair. There’d be music and the scents of mingled perfumes, the shimmer of rich fabrics and the gleam of jewels. Crystal drops would dangle from the chandeliers, glittering as brightly as diamonds.

      Arabella blinked and shook her head, dispelling the momentary dizziness. She stepped forwards firmly in the direction of Rosemary Lane.

      Adam sipped from his champagne glass and scanned the ballroom again. A quadrille was playing. Grace was in one of the sets, a brave smile on her face.

      Miss Knightley’s advice on that score had been unerring, but her other advice—

      His fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. Damned impertinence, is what it is.

      He scanned the ballroom again, searching for dark curls.

      A familiar face caught his attention. The lady had dark hair and pale skin, but there the resemblance to Miss Knightley ended. Lady Vane’s height was above average, her figure ample, her manner gracefully languid.

      Adam relaxed his grip on the champagne glass. His mood lightened. He swallowed another mouthful of champagne and set off towards his former mistress.

      ‘Darling!’ Mary Vane’s smile was both delighted and sleepy at the same time. She held out her hand to him.

      Adam bowed over her gloved fingers, inhaling the faint, familiar fragrance of her perfume. ‘I have a favour I’d like to ask of you.’

      ‘A favour?’ Mary waved her fan in a leisurely, graceful movement. ‘For you, anything.’

      Adam lowered his voice. ‘I’d like you to write to Lady Bicknell, inviting her to your next charity function.’

      ‘Lady Bicknell?’ Mary wrinkled her nose. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that? If the woman has any interest in soldiers’ widows, I’ve yet to hear of it!’

      Adam hesitated, then bent his head and spoke into her ear. ‘I believe she’s been dabbling in a little blackmail. I need to see a specimen of her handwriting.’

      ‘Blackmail!’ Mary stepped back a pace. The sleepiness was gone from her eyes. ‘Is everything all right, Adam?’

      ‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘I just need to prove something.’

      Mary chewed on her lower lip for a moment, surveying him, and then nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll write to her.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Adam took her hand again. ‘You’re an angel.’ He bowed and kissed her fingertips.

      Mary uttered an unladylike snort. ‘Hardly.’

      Adam grinned at her. Their affair was over—Mary no longer a widow, but once again a wife—but the fondness remained. ‘Would you care to dance?’

      ‘Far too fatiguing!’ Mary hid a yawn behind her fan.

      Adam laughed and took his leave of her. He retreated to an embrasure, where he leaned against the wall and sipped champagne and thought about what precisely he would say to Arabella Knightley. How dared she have the effrontery to discuss marriage with Grace—

      There she was.

      He experienced a moment of déjà vu, brief and dizzying. He’d stood like this once before: leaning against a wall, a glass dangling from his fingers, and watched as a young lady with sable-dark hair and an elegant face and eyes that looked almost black entered a ballroom. He’d been six years younger, half-foxed—and he’d stared at her and thought I want her.

      Adam straightened away from the wall. This time it wasn’t with appreciation that he watched Arabella Knightley across the ballroom. No one could deny she had style; it was in the way she moved, the way she held her head. Her beauty—the lustre of her hair, the darkness of her eyes, the pale glow of her skin—was merely fuel to his anger. He lifted his glass again, swallowed the last of the champagne, and set the glass down on a mahogany side table with a sharp clunk. He began to walk around the perimeter of the ballroom, pushing his way through the other guests.

      He had a bone to pick with Miss Arabella Knightley.

      

      Arabella escorted her grandmother to the card room. Playing cards—a pastime the fifth Earl of Westcote had thought unseemly for a lady—was his relict’s favourite activity in her widowhood.

      ‘Supper at midnight,’ Lady Westcote said, reaching for a pack of cards. Her hair gleamed like silver in the light falling from

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